


Faith

by notenuffcaffeine



Series: The Parent Pack [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Chris Argent, BAMF Melissa McCall, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF parents, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Kyle McCall is a pain in the ass, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Chris Argent, POV Derek Hale, POV Melissa McCall, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Mom, Parent pack!, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, chris argent is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/notenuffcaffeine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old jeep roaring to life out on the driveway brought Stilinski out of his shock.  He stared at the empty plate Stiles had left.  He looked down at his own and the precious pile of bacon on it.  The events of the previous week hit him like a ton of bricks, stopping all thought, all ability to move, all appetite.  Monsters, werewolves, freak storms, magic trees, his son sacrificing his damn young life... all tied together in a neat bow of bacon and Stiles walking out the door for a chem test.  The fork clattered to the plate and Stilinski shoved away from the table on an oath.</p>
<p>When had this become his life?</p>
<p>- or... -</p>
<p>The parents try to figure out how to keep up with the supernatural taking over *their* territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chi1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chi1013/gifts), [HilaryParker54](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HilaryParker54/gifts).



> Chi1013 wanted me to watch TeenWolf.  
> HilaryParker54 wanted a fic for her birthday.  
> I wanted to write.  
> Pack feels and Stilinski Family Feels and good-god somebody needs to show Kyle McCall the door.
> 
> This happened.  
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
> “When the answers that you know  
> just prove you wrong,  
> Gotta have a little faith to fall back on.”  
> ~ Hunter Hayes ~  
> \----

 

The signs of the weekend storm had faded away into an overcast sky.  The floods had pulled back into the creek beds they came from.  The wind had settled into nothing more than an early evening breeze that was gone by morning.  The valley was strangely muggy and humid and hovered in the early 80s.  It was a bit unseasonal, but nothing like the storm that had set fifteen fires burning in the area overnight, flooded out three neighborhoods, and stranded half a dozen motorists near the preserve.  The sheriff of Beacon Hills still had a hard time recognizing “normal” even four days after the chaos came to town.  

It took almost a week to get the officers’ shifts back on schedule at the sheriff’s office, meet up with the demands of the city, the county, and the mountain of paperwork in between, and no less than six press releases and formal conferences, personally delivered to a room full of cameras, microphones and shark-bait reporters.  He found out from his son later that he had been broadcast live-feed to the internet, and that sounded just a little scary, but Sheriff Stilinski had bigger things to worry about.

Once the details of the work-load were managed and seen to, only then did Stilinski file his own paperwork to document - as best he could - his own kidnapping.  It was on-the-job.  People had noticed.  Thankfully no one had leaked that news to the press.  The feds had been after him for a written statement for days, but he was still the sheriff and had things to do.  He eventually had to explain.  Once the report and statement were filed, his name signed at the bottom to lie that he hadn’t lied a word of it, Stilinski put himself on a week of R and R before the uppity-ups tried to make him do it.  He was a responsible adult.  He deserved a vacation.  And some time to figure out what he was supposed to tell the shrink when asked if he was fit to return to duty at the end of it.  

The timing was good.  The city was recovering and his officers were able to mind themselves again, less panic all around.  The feds had moved in and set up, like they planned to be there for a good long while.  Kyle McCall had even parked himself at Melissa and Scott’s again.  Stiles really didn’t like that part.  The boys lived at the Stilinski house all weekend, with the only explanation that Melissa had been called in for a double shift.  And the way Kyle ran his corner of the sheriff’s office, it was like Sheriff Stilinski was suffering through an extended performance review.  Old friends knew exactly how to make life hell.  Stilinski was glad to be out of earshot.

The morning of his first day off, Stilinski woke up early.  He got the coffee going, cooked some eggs, toasted some toast, and fried up some positively beautiful bacon.  His son pounced downstairs, ten-minutes-to-late for school, and stopped short at the sizzling pig on the plate.

“What’s this?” he asked.  His brow was raised, his tone completely accusatory and disapproving.  But it didn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of strips and leaving exactly one.

“Breakfast?” said Sheriff Stilinski.

“Bacon is bad for you,” said Stiles.  He picked off the last piece.  “I’m doing this for your own good.”

“This from the kid whose best friend is a werewolf.  Sue me if I felt like living a little dangerously this morning,” said Stilinski with an eye-roll worthy of his son, the Master.

“Who do you think I’m smuggling this stuff to?”  Stiles held up the bacon (not already in his mouth) now wrapped in paper towels.  “He’s a _growing_ werewolf.  His mom can barely keep the shelves stocked.”

“Are you trying to say forfeiting my bacon is my civic duty?” asked Stilinski.  Stiles pointed a finger to the tip of his nose as he chowed down on another piece from the paper-towel bacon burrito.

“Exactly.  For your own good and to serve and protect.  All part of the plan.”

Stilinski shook his head.  Then he moved away from the counter, carrying his own plate of eggs, toast, and an unhealthy portion of bacon.  “Figured you’d say something like that.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes in obvious disapproval of being out-maneuvered on the health track.  “Why aren’t you at work?”

Stilinski shrugged, chomped down on some eggs in deference to his son’s stare.  “Paid leave.  R&R because of the... thing with Blake.”

Stiles went still and blank, both unusual but not unusual lately at the mention of Jennifer Blake.  Stilinski sighed and waved him off.  “It’s standard, Stiles.  I’ll go back when the shrink clears me.”

“Kay.”  Stiles swallowed his food with a bit more effort.

“I didn’t tell you this.  It’s not in the papers.  But.  We did find her body.  What was left of it,” said Stilinski.  For some reason, his son had a morbid fascination for all things _morbid_ , so he figured it would help put Stiles back on an even keel again.  He wasn’t wrong, but he was surprised.

“Good,” said Stiles.  It wasn’t quite what Stilinski was expecting, but he took it.

“I was thinking maybe I could call the school and have them set aside your homework for a day or so,” said Stilinski.  He was a little too hopeful about it.

“Why?” asked Stiles.  “Something wrong? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just... I was thinking we could go watch a game or something.  The Giants are playing the Dodgers later...”

Stiles gave a visible sigh of relief.  He shoveled in the last of the eggs and the breakfast plate clattered quietly to the table.  He grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair and hugged it to his chest.

“That’d be awesome except I have a chem test at 12:40. Can’t.”

Stilinski blinked in shock, his fork frozen half way to his mouth.  Did his son just pass up a day in San Francisco and a Giants game in favor of a mid-week quiz?

Stiles scooted from the room after leaving a quick kiss on his startled father’s cheek and a “Thanks-luv-ya-bye!”

The old jeep roaring to life out on the driveway brought Stilinski out of his shock.  He stared at the empty plate Stiles had left.  He looked down at his own and the precious pile of bacon on it.  The events of the previous week hit him like a ton of bricks, stopping all thought, all ability to move, all appetite.  Monsters, werewolves, freak storms, magic trees, his son sacrificing his damn young life... all tied together in a neat bow of bacon and Stiles walking out the door for a chem test.  The fork clattered to the plate and Stilinski shoved away from the table on an oath.

When had this become his life?

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

Chris Argent sat in his office and stared at the empty gun rack.  His weapons had been confiscated a week ago, while he was buried in a literal root cellar, with the sheriff for company.  Chris hadn’t yet figured out how badly he wanted them back.  Stilinski obviously hadn’t been the one to confiscate them, which meant he had to jump through federal hoops to do it.  It wasn’t like he needed them _that_ badly.  The warrant he had been shown didn’t mention his storage unit.  And Lord knew he could get more guns if he needed them. For the sake of his reputation and license, it was more important to leave the feds alone.  But it chafed at everything he held dear.

Allison’s bedroom door squeaked open and Chris shoved the missing guns from his mind.  He met his daughter in the hall.

“Allison.”

“Morning, Dad.”

“Breakfast?” Chris asked with a wave toward the kitchen.  Allison shook her head.

“No.  I’ll get something from the vending machine,” she said.  Chris pulled a face and Allison shrugged.  “I don’t want to be late is all.”

The teen kissed her dad on the cheek and let him give her a hug before she slipped out the front door and was gone.  Chris frowned as he stared at the door.  On one hand, he was proud of her and her sense of responsibility.  She was growing up and taking care of herself without him.

On the other.  There was no missing the outline of the leather knife-sheath sewn into the side of Allison’s backpack.  A slim, low-profile blade no teacher would differentiate from a ruler.  It was a good thing Beacon Hills was a small suburb; if Allison tried that trick in Sacramento, she wouldn’t make it past a metal detector.  The girl hadn’t fallen off a turnip truck when the supernatural turned her life upside down, but she was showing too much faith in the world working in her favor.  Chris realized suddenly how unprepared his daughter was for their life, how much he had never taught her.  He had only tried to protect her.  Instead, he had left her sheltered and scrambling to make up for what she didn’t know on her own.  She had the tools, she had the drive, but without the guidance, it was a dangerous combination.  How had he missed that for so long?

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

Scott was hovering like a box-gnat.  Melissa moved one way, Scott sidestepped to let her by while simultaneously following.  One step, two step, hover, hover.  Melissa reached for a cereal bowl, Scott beat her to it.  She set it on the counter and pressed her son back away from her with a hand to his ridiculous chest.  When did he get a six pack?

“Scott!” Melissa said, smiling, patient, but at her limit.  “Was I okay yesterday?”

“Well, yeah, I think so...”  Scott hemmed and shuffled back a step.  Melissa nodded.

“And the day before that?”

“Yeah. But you were at work those days. With people and...” Scott stopped and scrubbed at his hair.  He was anxious.  Melissa smiled and caught his hands, pulling them down and away from his face.  She ruffled his hair for him.

“I’ll be fine. Go. to. School.”

“Okay.  But you promise to call me if...” Scott trailed off stupidly, apparently failing on how to fill-in-the-blank on all the things that could go wrong, between the fact that Beacon Hills was a danger-magnet and the fact that his “bag-of-dicks father” was staying with them.  Melissa wasn’t sure which Scott was more afraid of; real-life monsters, or the remote, never-gonna-happen possibility that his mother would lose her rational capabilities and fall for Kyle McCall again if left alone together too long?

“I promise to call if you promise to answer,” Melissa said. She stuck her tongue out for good measure.  “Now will you go to school before you’re late again?”

Scott looked around the room for one last strike of inspiration, found none as expected.  He huffed and nodded.

“Yeah, okay, I’m going.”

“Good. Thank you.”  Melissa opened her arms and her son hugged her tight - too tight!  “Ow - I need to breathe, honey.” - before he let her shoo him out the door.

Melissa stood over her bowl of Special K for a moment.  She didn’t move to the refrigerator for milk.  She didn’t hunt up a clean spoon.  She just stood at the counter and looked around the empty kitchen. Everything was quiet.  She heard the hum of the refrigerator and the tick-tock-tick of the clock on the wall.  Her son’s bike kicked to life out on the street.  A siren sounded further off from that.  Life went on, but it was quiet and still.  Melissa sagged against the counter, her head in her hands, and let the relief sink in.

The sudden appearance of a dark shape standing in the kitchen doorway startled the peace right out of her, along with a few years of her life.  Melissa reached for the knife on the cutting board beside her and turned with it raised.  Instinct.

“Ohmigod.”  Equal parts relief and anger flooded back when she recognized Kyle, in his black suit and jacket, hat in hand in case the sky outside opened up while he was out.  Melissa tossed the knife in the sink and leaned back against the counter to catch her breath.

“Are you okay?” Kyle asked slowly, clearly surprised by the greeting.  Melissa nodded and waved him off.

“I thought you had left already,” she said.  Kyle shook his head.

“With the way Scott’s been lately, I try to give him his space,” said Kyle. As if he had a clue.

“Well can you blame him?” Melissa voiced the question without thinking. She shook her head and moved to the refrigerator, the hunt for milk a welcome distraction from her ex-husband.  “Can I get you something?”

The offer wasn’t heartfelt and they both knew it.  Kyle shook his head.

“I’ll get something on the way in,” he said.  He motioned toward Melissa with his hat.  “No scrubs?”

“No work.  I needed some time off.  The animals at the zoo have been a little too loud,” she said.  It wasn’t up for discussion.  Kyle offered anyway.  Melissa turned him down and poured herself some milk for her cereal.

“Just... does it have to do with the stuff from last week?  Stilinski’s kidnapping?” asked Kyle. He would have, maybe, possibly, sounded just a little sincere if he hadn’t referred to it as he did.  There were three people in that basement, waiting for a monster to come back and kill them in painful bloody ways; Sheriff Stilinski had been one of them.  Kyle made it sound like it had been the sheriff’s fault.  It didn’t sit well with Melissa.

“No, Kyle.  It has maybe a little bit to do with the chaos of the hospital - the one I was taken from a week ago, yes - now that everyone’s stopped telling Apocalypse stories in the halls about how they survived the storm of the century.  I’m just a little bit done with that.  I took a week off.  PTO is a beautiful thing.  It means I get _Paid_ to take _Time_ _Off_.”  Melissa let the refrigerator door shut a little hard after she put the milk away.  She crossed her arms, leaned a hip to the counter, and tried very hard not to glare at him.  “Now I want you, and Scott, to stop pressing me about what I choose to do.  I’m a big girl. I can do it myself. Whatever it is.”

The words hung there for a moment. The clock ticked on. The refrigerator rattled and hummed away.  Kyle finally nodded.

“I’ll see you tonight then,” he said.  Melissa nodded.

“Mmhmm.”  She took her bowl to the table and sat down. By the time she realized she had no spoon, Kyle was driving past the window.  Melissa sat back in her chair and sighed.  It was too bad she already knew most of the shrinks in town.  If she didn’t have to face them on their hospital rounds, it might have been useful to talk to one sometime.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

Curled up on the couch in a ten-year-old pair of blue jeans and an equally beat-up sweatshirt, Melissa took full advantage of the muggy, overcast day.  She started some chicken soup in a crock pot, made herself a bowl of hot-cocoa, and indulged in the inanity of “The Price is Right.”  She stuck around for the soap that followed it and didn’t mind at all that she had no clue what was going on in the drama.  It was, she thought to herself, about on par with trying to step back into her own daily dramas after so long hiding at work. She didn’t have a clue and went right on faking it.

When the doorbell rang, Melissa turned off the TV without really caring and trotted out to see who on Earth knew she was home to pay a visit.  A new baseball bat sat in the corner behind the door just for this purpose.  (Metal. Weighted. Useful.)  After peeking through the peephole, Melissa stood back from the door, a little confused.  Manners kicked in then and she opened the door for Sheriff Stilinski.

“Mornin,” she greeted, though the worried question was hidden in her tone; Are the kids alright? Did something happen to Kyle? Please say Scott wasn’t involved. Pick one.

“Mornin,” Stilinski said in reply. He waved toward the driveway.  “I... saw your car in the driveway there. Thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

“Oh...” Melissa was no less surprised than she had been at the doorbell, but she smiled anyway.

“Everything alright?” the sheriff asked.  He wasn’t in uniform today either, but there it was, in his tone.  She was being checked in on by the sheriff again.  Her ex-husband alone was good for bringing that out in people.  Melissa nodded and pulled the door open to let him inside.

“Yeah. I just took some time off,” she said.  “Do you want to come in?  I can start up some coffee.”

Stilinski followed her inside and they traded pleasantries on the way into the kitchen.  Like the last time they’d seen each other hadn’t been in the middle of a storm after crawling out of a monster’s death-den.  Like everything was normal.  Like they were really good liars.

With the coffee on, Melissa cleared a stack of bills from her workspace at the kitchen table and they sat down to talk.  And that’s when they ran out of small-talk.  Of course.  For a moment, the room lapsed into quiet.  The sheriff peeked over at the coffee pot to see if there were enough drips to drink yet.  There weren’t, so he looked at his hands instead. Melissa was quietly amused.

“Is there something on your mind, Sheriff?” she asked.  

“Stiles,” the sheriff said.  He heaved a sigh as though he knew how predictable the response was.  Because it was, really.  Melissa shared the sigh.  

“And Scott.  Maybe especially Scott,” the sheriff went on.   “But the stuff on their plate right now... How? I can’t... I just can’t figure it out.”

Melissa was surprised despite herself that somehow her Scott had snuck into the sheriff’s list of heavy worries.  She looked out for the latch-key Stiles like a second son, and she knew Scott was no better to the Stilinski household, but when the bomb was dropped on her about Scott, it was only Scott who kept her up at night that first week.  And those were some long nights.

“How? How what?” Melissa asked.  “How do they deal with nearly being killed by monsters?”

The sheriff bobbed his head.  “And then rush out the door to school to take a chem test.  I don’t _get_ that.”

“They’re kids.  This is their normal, so they adapt.  You and me... not so adaptive with age.  ‘Cause I don’t get it either yet,” said Melissa.  The small smile on her face was sympathetic, not amused. It was, in a weird way, nice to have her own fears and worries voiced by someone else.  It made it seem almost normal, shared.  The sheriff looked up at her, eyes a little wide.

“That’s just it.  I don’t _like_ the idea of this being my son’s normal-anything.  Stiles has never - _never_ \- been normal, really, and there’s a certain level of weird that I’ve always been used to for him.  But I at least tried to give him a normal _life_ to be weird _in_.”

“Amen,” Melissa chimed in.  She shook her head.  “But at the same time? We are so lucky this is normal to them.  That they have things figured out.  You know?”

Stilinski let that sink in, quiet and spaced for almost a minute.  Melissa clasped her hand over his on the table, gave him a supportive squeeze.  She stood up to see to the coffee while the wheels turned in his head.  She knew the feeling too well.  The sheriff tracked her, distracted but present.  As the coffee splashed into the first mug, he seemed to shake himself out of it.

“I was wondering what the kids had told you about everything,” Stilinski asked.  Melissa gave a short bark of laughter.

“Scott’s only told me what he had to, really.  And what I told you last week was pretty much it,” she said.  “What it boils down to for me is that he’s a werewolf because some jerk bit him, so he goes a little crazy once a month, but is otherwise still Scott.  I’m female, so I can’t really argue with that.”

The dry humor was all but lost on Stilinski.  He got the look on his face when he was chasing something in his head, just like Stiles.  “But it’s not actually that simple.  Whatever it was we were dragged into just proves that it’s not.  There’s... politics of all damn things.  We were caught in some kind of power play.”

“Yeah.  But until we’ve been in the game as long - _god_ \- as they have, there’s no way we’ll know those rules,” said Melissa. She handed him his coffee, followed up with creamer and sugar on the table.  Then she sat down with her own cup.  “I can barely keep up with Scott on a good day.  He’s a teenager.  He acts like one, every minute.  I can only go by what he wants to share with me.  It drives me crazy.”

“Any research...” Stilinski’s question was cut off by a shake of the head and an unhappy grimace.

“No time. My shifts are all over the place.”

“That sounds familiar,” said Stilinski.

“Whoever thought they could live the quiet life in the suburbs never actually lived in one,” said Melissa.

“Definitely not this one,” added the sheriff.  There was a moment of quiet as they drank their coffee.  It was a friendly pause, the heavy thinking plowed through enough to let them breathe.  Stilinski looked over the edge of his coffee cup at her, the smile on his face one that usually meant trouble when Melissa saw it on Stiles’ face.  She wasn’t sure if Scott had learned it from the two of them or the other way around.

“Maybe we should change all that.  There’s two of us now,” Stilinski said.

“What?” asked Melissa.

“Care to start a werewolf-neighborhood watch program?  Complete with binoculars and snooping. Or is stalking our own children a non-option this late in the game?”  Stilinski was only half-serious in the offer.  Melissa laughed at how much of a non-option the idea really was.  There was no way they could keep up with their kids.  But, oh boy, was it tempting to try.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.


	2. Chapter 2

Stilinski’s day went on rather uneventful after his visit with Melissa McCall.  He brought some food home to keep Stiles stocked for another week.  He really couldn’t imagine how Melissa kept Scott fed, given how much the kids ate when they were over at his place.  Scott lately looked like he could eat the refrigerator with room to spare.  Teenagers.

After that, Stilinski tried the newspaper, which was a mistake.  He was quoted everywhere in it.  It hadn’t been a good week and even he knew he sounded like an idiot.  It was a good thing nobody ever ran against him anymore or he’d lose his job come next election cycle.  Next up was college football on ESPN’s version of the History Channel.  The game was so old that he had gone to see it in person with Claudia.  That entertainment venue was a bust.

By the time Stiles got home from school, Stilinski had - single-handedly and quite proudly - cleaned the garage.  Stiles stood in the big glowing doorway, backlit by sun so he was nothing but a dark shadow, and Stilinski stood proudly by his big rack of storage boxes by the door into the house.

“Dad?” Stiles asked.  Stilinski smiled, pointed to the boxes.

“Finally got a chance to clean the garage.”

“Uh huh.  I see...”  Stiles walked further into the garage and Stilinski could finally see the worry on his son’s face.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stiles gave him the squinty-stare the boy had developed back when he was eight and thought he could read people’s minds.  He used that tone.  The one teenagers use on adults when they think they’re being understanding, but really all it comes across as is patronizing.  Stilinski rolled his eyes and waved his hands to dismiss his day’s accomplishment.  He held the door open to send Stiles inside the house.

“I’m fine, Stiles.  There was nothing on TV.  I attacked the garage.  No physical, mental, or emotional strain was involved,” said Stilinski.  Stiles shrugged it off and darted past him on a bee-line for the kitchen.  Which is to say that he moved like a bee more than anything else; stopping for a little while in the hallway to check the mail, pausing in the living room to dump his backpack contents out onto the coffee table, running upstairs to get something from his bedroom, and _then_ finally laying waste to the kitchen.  Stilinski and his coffee sat at the table to watch as Stiles opened cupboard doors, contemplated then abandoned them and their contents for the refrigerator.  Ham and cheese on fluffy, bad-for-you-dad white bread, with more condiments than could be reasonable.  Was that ketchup?! Stilinski shook his head.

“So can you ditch school tomorrow?” he asked, in his best dad-voice just in case it worked. Stiles pulled a face like his law-abiding and-upholding father had suggested he violate the civil code.

“Uh, no? Spanish thing.  Which, uh, I gotta buy food for.  Like, something with rice and corn tortillas and salsa, I dunno yet.  Enough for everybody and stereotypically Mexican.”

“A lunch class?” his father asked.

“Yeah, close enough.  So we Fiesta!” Stiles wiggled as he shoved the bread in the fridge and waved the milk to add to the Fiesta!-dance.  Stilinski sighed, suddenly reminded of just how it was his son could keep up with a werewolf and all the troubles it seemed to attract.  A never ending supply of nervous energy.  Not unlike his mother.

“Well. What about homework tonight?” he asked.

Stiles nodded over his sandwich.  “Yep. I’ve got that too.”

“Anything I can help with?” Stilinski asked.  The response was like watching a deer hear a twig break in the woods.  Stiles slowly, carefully, lowered his food.

“Is this a trap?” he asked.

Stilinski blinked at him.  “A trap?”

“Yeah... the sudden father-son time.  It’s not normal.”

That one hurt.  A lot.  Stilinski floundered, gaping like a fish out of water as he searched for words.  Any words.  Anything.  He’d take it.  “In all honesty, Stiles, neither is nearly being offered up as a human sacrifice to mythological monsters.  It has the bizarre impact of of putting things in perspective.”

Stiles’ mouth formed a soundless “oh,” and his eyes looked momentarily in danger of popping out of his head.  Then, inexplicably, he went back to his food. “Point,” was all he said.  It wasn’t a trap, and he had no answers for his father’s perspective shift.  Silence and chewing reigned.  Stilinski swallowed back a sigh, just for the sake of his pride because it seemed like sighs took up too much of his time lately.

“You know that talk you tried to have back before things went to hell last week?” he asked instead.  “About werewolves and dark things and chess pieces?”

Stiles bobbed his head.  The first promising sign Stilinski had seen all week.

“Can we try having it again?  Now that I know why you were _not_ acting like yourself going into it?”

Stiles thought about it over his sandwich.

“What, like a Monster Q and A session?”

“Something like that.”

“Sure.”

Something like relief crept in but Stilinski wasn’t sure yet he could trust it.  There had to be a catch, it was too easy.  There had to be a...

“Just not today ‘cause I gotta go.  It’s a Scott thing.”

A moment later, Stiles was back out the door with his backpack, leaving sandwich crumbs in his wake. And Stilinski at the kitchen table, silently pounding his head on his crossed arms.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

 

With a whole lot of nothing going on, at least in his neighborhood, Stilinski had time on his hands and questions in his mind.  How was he supposed to keep his kid safe enough to see his 18th birthday if he never knew what trouble the kid was into?  He knew the who, he knew the why, but not the where, when, what, or how much.  Who and why were no different than they had always been: Scott.  And Derek Hale was in there as an uncomfortable addition.  Stilinski latched on to Scott because the kid was familiar, he could wrap his mind around “It’s a Scott thing” a helluva lot easier than “It’s a werewolf thing.”  Stilinski chalked it up to catching flies with honey instead of vinegar.  He just didn’t like any of it, took the pieces that made sense and ignored the rest.  He was all too aware that ignoring the details wouldn’t help him help the kids.

That’s why, without consciously realizing it, he wound up at the Argent’s door.  Chris Argent was involved because he hunted the things that went bump in the night.  Who better to tell him what else was out there, what other than teenaged werewolves needed hunted in the name of the public good.  Stilinski raised a hand, knocked on the apartment door, fully intending to ask.

Chris answered, surprised but tolerating of his presence on the ironic-only welcome mat.

“Sheriff.”

“Chris.”

It wasn’t a stand off, but it wasn’t as comfortable as standing at Melissa’s door.  Stilinski realized he needed more friends.

“Something I can help with?” Chris asked.

“I was just wondering how many times you and yours took aim at my son over the past year?”

Well.  That wasn’t what Stilinski had planned to ask.  But it was what came out, so Stilinski waited to see how it would go.  Chris didn’t give any outward show of emotion one way or another, mindful of the neighbors from the way he glanced up and down the hall.  His expression was a bit harder as he looked back to the sheriff.

“This an official visit?”

“Nope.” Stilinski shook his head.  “I’m on vacation.”

The door was held open a little further.  Chris waved him inside.  Once the door blocked out the snoops down the hall, Chris seemed to stand back, like a man expecting a fight.  Stilinski raised a brow but was careful to keep his hands in his pockets.  Chris Argent was a man with a guilty conscience.

"Look, I'm trying to get answers. That's all. I don't want a fight. Just... To know what I'm really up against," Stilinski said. "If I didn't already have plenty of proof that my son was a smart-assed, meddlesome trouble-magnet, I wouldn't be here.  Because if he weren't, he would answer my questions himself.  Instead of run off the second I ask for straight answers.  So it's not that hard to figure out he had to run straight into _your_ pack a time or two."

"I don't have a pack," said Chris, still defensive.

"Figure of speech." Stilinski rolled his eyes.  "Come on, man. You've got a kid. She's still normal. Stiles is still normal - believe it or not - and I'm just now finding out how far in over his head he is."

Chris thought it over.  He nodded, his reluctance obvious, and waved for the sheriff to follow him.  They ended up in the office, a desk between them, and Chris seated in the bigger chair.  Stilinski grinned despite himself; he knew the trick, the subtle intimidation inherent in the set-up.  He was a cop, he used it all the time.  Stilinski took his seat without further comment.

"We only had a few run-ins with Stiles," Chris said.  "We knew who he was and vice versa. He could point us to the wolves."

"You're kidding.  Did he?" Stilinski frowned.  He didn't like that Stiles was a known-entity and sitting duck, but the notion that he would sic hunters on his best friend didn't sit well either.  Stilinski was actually relieved when Chris shook his head.

"No."

"Either way, that's a problem," said Stilinski.  "If you know he's associated with them and easier to get to, then it follows that anyone in your place..."

"He's the weakest link in the pack, literally. The first and easiest weakness to exploit," said Chris.  "But he's not entirely stupid. My father tried to bait Scott with him once. Stiles... Got around it."

"He what?" Stilinski had to remind himself he was looking for intel to help his son, not excuses to arrest people.

"The point is, he's aware, sheriff. He's so far dodged more bullets - figuratively speaking - than he's been hit by," said Chris.

"And he's my _kid_ and I don't want him being hit by any bullets, figurative or literal either one," replied Stilinski. "You're telling me there's nothing I can do to help?"

"Oh, there is," said Chris. "Get him to stop hanging out with Scott and the Hale pack.  It will increase his life expectancy ten-fold, and that has nothing to do with hunters."

"You don't separate kids who grew up like brothers. Not without a death wish," said Stilinski.

Chris sighed.  Stilinski got the impression he was used to dealing with idiots in his line of work, too.  "Anything that goes after the pack goes to your doorstep, sheriff. Having seen what you've seen, are you okay with Stiles laying out the welcome mat?"

"Arguing him on it will just have him planting a neon sign over the door to go with it," said Stilinski. "You don't know my kid. You out-think him or you stay out of his way. I'm here because I'm tired of being put out of the way."

"What is it you think I can do about that?" asked Chris, confused.

"You have expertise.  Teach me what you know.  About werewolves and whatever other bumpy night-jumpers are lurking out there."

Chris blinked at him.  He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk.  "I'm sorry. Are you saying you want to learn to hunt?"

"I know how to hunt," said Stilinski.  "I don't know how to hunt whatever is out there that could be hunting my son. That's what I want to learn."

"That's not a small request," said Chris.  "It takes time and experience..."

"Are you saying you wouldn't want the local Barney Fife for back-up on these things?" asked Stilinski, laying out a clear challenge.

He wasn't sure how, but it worked.  Stilinski spent the next hour flipping through an old book about monsters and asking questions.  By the end of it, he didn't quite feel like he believed in the existence of the myriad beasts discussed.  Everything in him said none of it was real, but that was shouted down by the fact that he had seen a monster with his own two eyes, so his instinct was flat wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Melissa realized she was meant to be a shift worker with sleepless hours when all she did with her vacation time was catch up on sleep.  She ran out of things to do; the house was cleaned, the TV wasn't keeping her attention, and she was in no mood to read. But the couch was oh so comfortable.

The front door slamming with enough force to shake the windows startled her out of a nap with a yip.  She met Scott at the kitchen, her alarmed expression only faded slightly.  He mumbled an apology but offered no explanation. Stiles and Isaac trailed in behind him.

"What is going on?" Melissa asked.  She had calmed but was warming to a new kind of worry from the odd expression on her son's face.

"Nothing." The predictable response made Isaac look down at his shoes and then around the kitchen, a clear effort to not be called on next.  Stiles scrunched his nose, frowning.

"Derek came back," he said.  He rolled his eyes at the glare from Scott.

"So?" asked Melissa.

"So he doesn't belong here.  He hasn't called me.  I don't know why he's here, just that when he left, he said this was the last place he wanted to be. Not much has changed in a week," said Scott.

Melissa begged to differ but she kept the thought to herself.  She was too confused. “Then why is it a problem?”

“He’s an alpha.  He’s here.  I can tell he’s here and... he just doesn’t belong here,” said Scott.  He was stressed, something eating at him that wasn’t translating well enough for his mother to understand.  She looked to Stiles, shamelessly recruiting him as her interpreter whether he wanted to be or not.  He shifted nervously but was still a much calmer presence than Scott or Isaac, which in and of itself was unnatural.

“It’s a territory thing,” said Stiles.  Melissa raised an eyebrow.  Sheriff Stilinski hadn’t been exaggerating about Stiles’ tendency to avoid a conversation by dubbing it a “thing.” Scott looked at Stiles then, exasperated and overdramatically betrayed, so Stiles threw his hands in the air and went to find food to keep his mouth from talking.  Melissa thwacked her son on the shoulder.

“What!  I just... I don’t know what to do,” Scott stated the obvious with his usual grace.

“Why don’t you ask Alan?  You said he’s helped before.”  Melissa frowned as her question only seemed to make Scott more anxious.  He racked both hands through his hair and paced.  Stiles bounced out of his way and up onto a counter with a stolen Pop Tart.  

At Melissa’s look, he explained without apparent fear of retribution: “Deaton’s okay for most stuff. But he’s known the Hales forever.  So asking him if Derek’s come back to town to kick Scott’s ass out of it is about as trustworthy as asking a bear for directions in the woods.”

Melissa looked to Scott, surprise beating confusion.  “Excuse me? Kick you out?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Scott glared in Stiles’ direction again.

“That’s why I think we should just go, I dunno, talk to the man and find out?” Stiles replied.  Logic.  So of course her son refused it.  Melissa could see it on his face before he had fully formed the rejection.

“No,” said Scott.  Melissa held her hands up in a T and interrupted Scott’s eyeline glare with Stiles.

“Hold it!” she said in her best Mom-voice.  She poked Scott in the chest to get his attention to center back on her.  “You have a cell phone.  You can find out by text message.  Welcome to the two-thousands, kid.  But you are not allowed out of this kitchen until you tell me just what you’re worried about.”

“What he said,” Scott replied, waving to Stiles.  “This county is the Hales’ backyard.  If Derek’s back to claim territory, what if I have to kill him to get to _finish high school_?”

Melissa blinked.  The what-if was ridiculous... but it hit her just as quickly that maybe in Scott’s world now it might not be as out-there as it sounded.  When did she give permission for her baby boy to have to worry about life and death and high school in one breath?  Wolf or no wolf, that wasn’t gonna happen.  She was the Mama Wolf now, whatever those were called, and she was nipping that pup right in the butt.  No killing for grades.  Or anything else, if it could be helped, but Melissa figured she would cross that bridge when it showed up.  She shook her head and forced a calm.  Tried to _project_ calm for her amped-up son to pick up on.  He was keyed up from the worried Isaac, looking like his tail was tucked over something, and Stiles who was his usual belligerent self.

“No killing is going to happen,” Melissa said.  "That's not what this... was meant for, Scott. You didn’t get bit so you could ruin your shot at college and end up pushing... frisbees or something in a dark alley.  I don't pretend to understand any of it, but I know you."

There was a brief moment where the effort at lightening his scowl almost worked.  Then Scott set his jaw. "There's no such thing as fate."

Melissa shrugged it off.  "No, but there is a thing called faith,” she said.  “And I got faith in my kid.  I’m not winning any Mother Of The Year any time soon but I ended up with a kid who knows right from wrong.  I know I did.  Whatever this territory thing is, you’ll figure it out without bloodshed.”

Scott listened, which made Melissa just a little prouder of her son than she had been a minute earlier.  He scrunched his face and still looked like he needed a map.  He opened his mouth and looked like he intended to speak but what came out was a small sound almost like a puppy.  Melissa did a quick finger-comb of his messed-up hair, distracting him into swatting at her momming him.

“Maybe he’s back because he grew a conscience,” Stiles offered up.  “He figured out leaving Peter here was a Bad Idea. All capslock.”

Melissa looked between the boys, brow raised.  She shrugged.  “Sounds like Stiles is volunteering to run reconnaissance.”

“No... that sound would have been a lot more like...”  Stiles crossed his eyes and flailed his arms while making a completely unidentifiable, inhuman noise of something small being murdered.  He jumped from the counter and shook his head, his expression back to normal.  “And I didn’t make that noise.”

Melissa reached out and slung an arm over the shoulders of the two boys nearest to her.  She lowered her voice.  “No, it’s perfect.  Derek can’t hurt you, otherwise Chris Argent will help Scott take him out. You’re the messenger, immune to all territorial, instinctual demands.”

Scott seemed to be actually considering it.  He smirked over at Stiles.  “And let’s face it.  If Derek was going to bother killing you, he would have done it ages ago.”

“Sounds familiar,” added Melissa.  Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“You’re an evil woman,” he informed her.

“I’m a nurse.  I stab people for a living.  Don’t act so surprised,” she replied.  Scott broke the huddle and collected Stiles by the collar of his overshirt.

“Come on.  Maybe we can bug you or something,” said Scott.  He shooed Isaac up the stairs ahead of him.   Stiles slumped along after him, feet dragging with a little more effort than he had resorted to on any of the hundred times Melissa had watched a similar scene unfold in the boys’ long friendship.  Melissa almost felt a little guilty, helping her son bully Stiles.  Almost.  They were still teenagers.  Everything in their world came with an overabundance of miscommunication and drama.  Derek Hale was an adult.  He had to know better than that.  Melissa watched the boys disappear and thought again about Stilinski’s suggestion that they start stalking their children.  It was evident they could do worse.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

 

The Stilinski house could sound big and empty when it wanted to.  Usually Stilinski got that feeling at night, usually when he started missing the life he didn’t get to provide his family in it.  He missed his wife most at night when things were quiet, when the near-grown Stiles disappeared into his room to do homework or whatever he did in there.  Stiles didn’t sit still very well, always thinking if he wasn’t moving.

Stilinski just considered himself lucky his son had never tried to build a nuclear reactor in there off of instructions from the internet.  Stilinski didn’t mind taking the night shift at work just for his own peace of mind and the very real concern for plausible deniability.  He couldn’t just run off to work tonight though; being on vacation had it’s drawbacks.  So he sat at the table, the book he had borrowed from Chris (the one about monsters) to keep him sane as he listened to the house creak and age in the dying heat of the day.  

He was pulled from his homework by the rattle of his cell phone against the table.  Stilinski blinked at it a moment, registering the text message alert but trying to figure out who would text him in the first place.  Curiosity won out and he reached for it.  It was from Melissa, just to tell him that she had the boys over at her house that night.  Sneaky woman and her grasp on modern technology.  They could get the stalking plan in gear easier than he had thought after all.  Stilinski looked around the empty dining room and thought about inviting himself to the McCall’s, too, but latch-key-parenting wasn’t actually a thing.  Kyle McCall would not appreciate it.  Stiles would give him the side-eye and worry.  Abandoning the thought of calling a party at the McCall place, Stilinski went back to his reading; his son had enough to worry about, no sense adding his father’s sanity to the list.

He reached for his glass of water and his attention caught on the bottle on the shelf across the room beyond it.  Stiles had put the Jack Daniels back in it’s spot in the cabinet himself, another thing the boy worried about.  He always knew exactly how much was in whatever bottle got put up there, he was that hyper-aware of his father’s health after his mom’s death.  It was a habit.  It was something Stiles was afraid of.  Not much of a social drinker, Stilinski wasn’t even that good at getting drunk, a ridiculous light-weight considering the Irish and Polish in his family tree.  He was a sad-drunk, no fun to be around and it didn’t take him much to hit the point where he was just plain depressing.  He didn’t do it much.  Stilinski didn’t ask permission to have a drink when he needed one, but he still caught the way his son checked on the bottle.  And he couldn’t blame the kid.  Not every kid on the block had buried their mom by the age of 12 and then sat in another hospital room waiting for their dad to detox from a bad binge.  It only took one screw up to damage a kid.

Stilinski checked the impulse to pour the bottle down the kitchen drain and toss the bottle.  He would never be able to convince Stiles he hadn’t spent his vacation drinking if it disappeared.  Resolve met with his new-found vigilance in defense of his son and Stilinski came up with a new plan: Screw Jack Daniels. That bottle was the last one Stilinski would bring in the house.  Until Stiles was 21 and bringing in his own booze, anyway.  Compared to dealing with actual, real-life, teeth-and-drool-and-blood monsters, never touching the bottle again was the easiest decision Stilinski had ever made.  He smiled at the amber-filled home-decor choice and returned to his reading, the heavy feeling dragging on his shoulders a little lighter than it had been all week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it for the first act.  
> With a little luck, the second in this series - Control - will be up next week.   
> *hangs up a beta-wanted sign in the front window*
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!
> 
>  
> 
> \----  
> “When all that you’ve got left is being strong,  
> Gotta find a little faith to fall back on.”  
> ~ Hunter Hayes ~  
> \----

The next morning, Stilinski let Stiles leave the house - on time for once - before he started out for his own car.  No need to worry Stiles about anything work-related; so what if he showed up to a meeting with Kyle McCall a few minutes late?  Stilinski turned off the coffee maker and locked up the house.  He meandered with traffic, reminding himself at every stop light that he was on vacation.  Kyle had called him in, nice and polite and fake for the entire conversation.  It was a fishing exhibition.  Stilinski knew that trick, too.  It bothered him, but not as much as a warrant would have.  The good Sheriff of Beacon Hills had already been looked at and cleared for his non-role in the weird goings on of the past two years.  He cruised into the station parking lot and was whistling when he walked through the front door.  The tune faltered slightly at the worried expression on his lieutenant's face but he offered her a smile and motioned toward the hall.

“McCall where I left him?” he asked.  She nodded and Stilinski headed for his office.  He knocked briefly at his own door before he was called inside.  It was a small station, they only had so many rooms for visitors, so Stilinski had straightened his desk and let Kyle take it over while he was gone.  Kyle sat behind the desk in the big chair.

“Thanks for coming in, Sheriff,” greeted Kyle.  Stilinski nodded.  He took a seat on the wrong side of his own desk without being told.

“How can I help, McCall? Did you find anything new?” Stilinski asked.

“I actually wanted to ask you about your contacts with the Argent family,” said Kyle.  Right to the point.  No old-friend, glad-you’re-still-alive banter.  Work.  And Stilinski remembered why the workaholic Melissa McCall had called it quits with the man so many years earlier.  Kyle was like a dog with a bone.

“There hasn’t been much,” said Stilinski.  “Outside of the investigations into Kate, and we looked into his wife’s suicide.  Damn shame.  Chris is a good man and Allison’s a good kid.”

“High praise for a glorified gun dealer,” said Kyle thoughtfully.  

“Pretty sure you’ve got at least one gun on your person,” said Stilinski.  “They get bought from somebody. And that one’s got higher connections than a pusher on the street.  You don’t get a job like that by being a jerk.  He’s paid to be nice to people.”  The sheriff shrugged it off.  “But a week ago around this time, I was just crawling out of a premature grave with the guy, so it’s fair to say my opinion’s been recently revised.”

Kyle raised a brow, assessing the sheriff from the other side of his desk.  “Why? Just shared experience? What?”

“Chris Argent went out of his way to help Melissa and I.  It went sideways on him and he kept his head,” said Stilinski.  “Shows a man’s character, what they’ll do for folks they don’t owe anything to.”

Kyle pulled a face, brushing at his jaw like he didn’t agree with something that had been said.  “You looked into the family’s problems.  He might have felt he did owe you.”

“For what?  Digging into Kate Argent ruined their name in this area.  It might have even cost him his wife. What do you think he owed me for?”  The question was just a little short tempered, but Stilinski was also half curious to what angle Kyle was working.  And what he had stumbled into that had him looking into the Argents at all.

“For not looking harder at Allison Argent?” suggested Kyle.  “That young woman is just as dangerous as her aunt’s reputation.  Her way of announcing that she was done cooperating with my investigation into your disappearance was to drop a flashbang on a table full of guns in her father’s office.”

Stilinski’s jaw dropped.  Well.  That would sic Kyle on the scent pretty damn fast. “Was anyone hurt?”

Kyle huffed.  “Thankfully no.  Smoke inhalation and stung eyes.  But it could have been worse.  The Argents were loaded for bear that night.”     

Probably more like Darachs than bears, thought Stilinski idly.  Either way, with Chris’ life just as on the line as his own had been, the kids had been wound up tight.  Kyle was pretty lucky he hadn’t caught her really riled.  Allison was definitely lucky.  “Yeah, the kids had put together their own search party from what I heard.  You saw them interfering with an investigation?  That’s pretty much what they would have figured you were doing.  They found us first, and everything.”

“If they had just answered...” Kyle’s complaint hadn’t even been finished in his head before Stilinski let out a laugh.

“They’re kids! Teenagers,” he said.  “They don’t ‘just answer’ to anything or anyone.  They still own the world, Kyle, remember that feeling?”

“Yeah, but I remember knowing not to start fires around open weapons cartridges and I sure as hell remember the little detail called respect,” said Kyle.  His feathers were ruffled.  Stilinski stared in surprise as he realized why Kyle had stuck around.  A little girl had stomped on his pride.  Shit.  Stilinski rubbed at his forehead, heaved a sigh.

“Kyle, this is a small town. The rules are a little looser here.  We have to take each call in context and prioritize different than in the city.  We don’t have the resources to slap everybody’s wrists.  The kids were just trying to protect their family, they weren’t thinking you were anything different than...”

“Than dealing with you?” Kyle replied.  Stilinski’s eyebrows hit his forehead but he nodded.

“Probably,” he agreed.  “And I wouldn’t have risked putting Allison in a room with her father’s weapons that night.”

“Now I know better,” Kyle said with a nod.  He was quiet, clearly no longer interested in discussing the Argents.  “How did those kids know where to find you?”

The subject change was just close enough to the fuzzy gray area Stilinski had been forced into by monsters and werewolves that he floundered on trying to find words for a moment.  Kyle noticed.

“You kind of skipped over the motive in your report, too,” said McCall.  “Why would Jennifer Blake go to the trouble of kidnapping two grown men - a gun dealer and a sheriff - and an on-duty shift nurse in the middle of a storm?  She’s a small woman. That was no easy task.”

“Especially considering I was unconscious when it happened,” said Stilinski.  He frowned, shook his head.  “I honestly never got a chance to ask Blake what she was doing.  But considering all the lives she had already taken, it seems obvious enough she had a surprising strength for her size.”

Kyle pursed his lips, tapped his pen on the blotter and a file he kept staring at.  “Was it something against the kids?  Allison, Stiles and Scott?”

“The kids had no connection to the other murders,” said Stilinski. He was _stumbling_ through that gray area now and he knew it.  “Blake was a monster.  She tried to kill Lydia Martin using the memorial as a distraction.  She was a teacher, plenty of access to these kids...”

“But these kids have shown up in quite a few other cases over the last two years, Sheriff.  Your own son found at crime scenes...” Kyle trailed off on what was already a familiar discussion on his view of Stilinski’s incompetence.

“Yours showed up at one or two as I recall,” replied Stilinski shortly.  “So tread careful on the favoritism line, McCall.”

Kyle frowned and Stilinski was getting real sick of the fake concern on the man’s face.  “Stiles didn’t answer me when I asked.  How are you doing lately, Sheriff? With all this...”  Kyle motioned toward the stacks of files of open investigations.

“Fine?” Stilinski replied, not sure where it was going.

“Still drinking?”

Stilinski realized then he should have seen it coming.  Kyle knew the family secrets.  Knew the skeletons were in there somewhere.  It tainted everything in front of him on the desk, all the work Stilinski and his officers  had done, worthless because of a few grieving years when he had turned to friends for help after his wife died.  An actual drunk couldn’t possibly keep tabs on a city the size of Beacon Hills, but that argument would only help Kyle’s conviction that his quest was justified.  The sheriff sighed and shook his head.  The conversation was a waste of time.

“I think we’re done here,” he said.  He motioned toward the files.  “You’ve got your hands full.  Have fun, Kyle.”

Sheriff Stilinski didn’t wait for permission to let himself out of his office.  If it had been an official interview, maybe he would have hesitated. And he had no doubt that before the week was up, Kyle would call him back for a chat on the record.  In the meantime, though, Stilinski had no reason to play games with the man.  He paused on his way out of the station, catching his lieutenant’s attention briefly.

“You let me know when that jackass relinquishes my office,” he said, calm but no less irritated.  Then he was gone, back to his car to think of how to handle the mess Kyle McCall was making of Beacon Hills.  

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

The solution was Stilinski’s cell phone.  He replied to Melissa’s text message from the night before, then used the phone for the old-fashioned purpose of making a phone call.  Twenty minutes later, Stilinski sat at an outdoor corner coffee joint, surrounded by a crowd of yuppies in Beacon Hills for the quaint, small town shopping venue they couldn’t get in the city.  The cafe made a good cup of coffee, but Stilinski usually walked in and then left.  He didn’t often sit down and listen to the conversations of complete strangers around him.  He began to doubt his location choice, but then Argent showed up.  He sat down like a regular, to-go cup already in hand.  The two men nodded in greeting.  Chris checked his watch.

“I thought you said Melissa McCall would be here?” Chris asked.  Stilinski nodded, just then catching the woman in question wending her way into the cafe.  She disappeared up by the counter to make her order. Chris noticed her and nodded his acceptance.  The two men sat quietly, comfortable with the white noise around them.  Chris seemed to approve of the location, and Stilinski had told him only that he was concerned for the kids in order to get the man to show up.  If Argent was cool discussing werewolves around city-dweller-tourists, Stilinski figured he could survive the experience too.  It helped that no one at the cafe recognized him out of uniform.

Melissa showed up again, her hands wrapped around a big ceramic mug of tea.  She seemed surprised to see Chris, her steps slowing just slightly.  She shot the sheriff a suspicious look but it faded by the time she sat down with them at their table.

“Gentlemen.  Good morning,” she said.  The men echoed each other in their return greeting and Chris sipped at his coffee.  He and Melissa looked to Stilinski expectantly; it was his party.

“Right.  So I just came from a chat with Kyle McCall,” said Stilinski.  Melissa looked intrigued.  Chris remained impassive behind his sunglasses.  The sheriff continued.  “It was off the record, but it’s enough for me to figure you should be let in the loop.  I think it’s safe to say we’ve got problems.  He’s looking into the kids.  Allison and Stiles.”

“What!” squawked Melissa. She almost spilled her tea. Stilinski noticed Chris wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“Did you know your daughter set off a flashbang in your office, against the feds?” he asked.  Chris’ grimace twitched and he looked back at Stilinski.

“They took my guns.  I asked why,” he said patiently.

“Here’s your heads up: if I know Kyle at all, he’s going to make a federal case of it,” said the sheriff.  “And he’s drawing lots of little lines between your daughter and your sister.”

Melissa looked outraged in her quietly-sitting-over-tea-and-contemplating-murder way.  Her nails drummed on the table and did nothing to dispel Stilinski’s concern that she would eventually say something to her ex-husband.  “Did Scott tell Kyle yet?” he asked.

“Of course not.  Are you kidding?” Melissa asked.  “He won’t even say hello to the man unless I’m in the room to mediate.”

“So we have two years of _weird_ being looked through in great detail by a fed with a couple of axes to grind. And he doesn’t have the full story,” said Stilinski.

“I hope you’re not suggesting we give it to him,” said Chris.

“Nope, I’m just suggesting that we’re the adults here.  And I’m not particularly trusting of Kyle’s interpretation of events, or the laws applicable to them,” said Stilinski.  He looked to Melissa.  “So I’m open to suggestions on derailing your ex-husband.”

She curled her hand into a credible imitation of Scott’s intimidating claws, adding a subtle mime of tearing something from said ex-husband’s body.  “The only ideas I have at the moment aren’t legal.”

Chris gave a huff of amusement. “We have lawyers, sheriff.”

Sheriff Stilinski nodded but was no less intent on the subject.  “He’s digging through two years of files, and likely the Hale murders.  You trust your lawyers that much?”

Chris’ expression darkened behind his coffee.  “Not particularly,” he mumbled around the lid of the to-go mug.  The sheriff leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table.

“Right.  Now I’m not suggesting anything illegal... but our kids have got a federal agent dogging them. I’m not a big fan of letting that get out of hand, too.  Not when Kyle gave us warning.”

“He practically wrapped it in a bow,” Melissa said.  She furrowed her brow and sipped at her tea.  

“He was fishing.  He doesn’t have anything to go on. Not enough yet,” replied the sheriff.

“So now we just have to make sure the kids don’t give him something new to run with.” Melissa’s expression said she knew something.  Stilinski waited expectantly.  Melissa looked up at them and blinked, sudden surprise.  

“Stop that.  Now,” she said.  Stilinski didn’t have a clue what she meant.  She waved a hand between the sheriff and Chris.  “You had the same look.  Both of you.  Something usually blows up when Stiles gets that look.”

Stilinski buried his face in his hands, wondering what all had been blown up over the years.

“Do you think the kids are going to do something, Melissa?” asked Chris.

“Maybe?” said Melissa, sheepish.  She waved her hand, helpless and dismissive at the same time.  “Last night Scott was worried about a territory thing with Derek...”

That caught Chris’ attention.   “Derek’s back in town?”

Melissa nodded.  Stilinski didn’t catch the significance.

“And he’s getting territorial?” asked Chris.  

“No... I don’t know... Scott was worried Derek was coming back for territory, but Stiles was making it sound like Scott was getting worried for nothing.  They were going to check into it,” said Melissa.

“Shit, they are gonna do something,” muttered Chris.  He scrubbed at his face, the hamster wheels finally turning out of worry.  Stilinski frowned.

“I don’t know. I mean, Stiles has a pretty good handle on things, of some kind anyway.  Maybe he’s closer to the mark than Scott here,” he said.  Chris shook his head.

“All due respect, Sheriff, Stiles is an idiot.  Scott’s running on instinct.  Stiles... He’s, what, googling things? He is messing with the supernatural here. Super, as in above, as in extreme. Things he doesn’t understand and no one on wikipedia has a clue about.”

“Scott is still Scott, Chris,” said Melissa adamantly. “I don’t pretend to understand what he’s going through, but I still see my son in everything I’ve seen him do.”

“And, supernatural or not, that’s what these kids are stuck with. Stiles won’t abandon his friends, any of them.  Not if he thinks - however misguided he may be - that he can help.  So what can we do about it if there’s some kind of territory battle on the horizon? It’s not like Melissa can _ground_ a werewolf.”  The sheriff kept his voice quiet, glanced around at the neighboring tables to be sure nobody was paying attention to him.  Melissa smirked at him behind her tea.

Chris shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t know.  These kids - what they’re doing, with this little hybrid pack... - it shouldn’t work at all,” he said. He leaned an elbow on the table to speak more quietly.  “Think about it. Human teenage biology and physiology, their social _anything_... It’s a volatile, unpredictable mess.  Hell on the system all by itself.  Now?  Add in a werewolf.  Add in magic.  No scientific explanation for this stuff.  But it’s pretty damn obvious it shreds them up, makes them into something new.  So now you want me to predict how that will behave in any given circumstance?  No.”

“But Scott’s learning to control it,” said Melissa hopefully.  It all still made her a little queasy but she hadn’t given up on her son yet.  Stilinski nodded.

“We saw Isaac controlling it.  In defense of us, at his own risk,” he added.  Chris shrugged, sighed uncomfortably.

“Their friends are all that’s keeping them human,” he said.  “There will be a problem on Kyle’s radar if Derek’s stupid enough to try to mess with that.”

“Well.  That’s a bit melodramatic, Chris,” said the sheriff.  “Derek Hale is just a kid, too.  He’s human.  And if he’s from a whole _family_ of werewolves, maybe, just maybe, we’re looking at the supernatural a little wrong.”

Chris shook his head.  “You won’t convince me of that.”

“I won’t try,” said Stilinski, respectful of their drastic difference in opinion and the reasons for it.  

“This used to be so much easier,” Melissa complained suddenly.  Stilinski and Chris both huffed their amusement and agreement.  Melissa shook her head, poking the plastic tablecloth as though it was personally responsible for the problem at hand.  “When my kid did something stupid, I could smack his butt and tell him not to do it again.  He’d listen, damnit.  He’s a good kid.  Now there’s rules that say he can do what he feels he needs to?   _Supernatural_ instincts - that I, his mother, damn well didn’t bequeath him - that are more important than me.”

Chris gave her a slow, sly smile.  “You think your son outgrew his fear’a god because of this?”

Stilinski tilted his head at the other man’s tone.  Something told him he should be worried for Scott’s safety based on Chris’ expression alone.  Melissa caught it too, physically withdrawing from the circle of their table to lean back in her chair with her tea as a shield.

“Well? Didn’t it? He’s not exactly a kid anymore.  And he’s kind of a lot like _huge_ now,” she said.  Chris shook his head and Stilinski swore the man was laughing behind his coffee cup.  He pulled out his cell phone and started pressing buttons and typing on the screen.  Melissa and Stilinski looked to each other as though they expected the other to have a clue.

“What?” asked Stilinski.  “You’re typing. What... why?”

Chris grinned up at him.  “I don’t know how to handle Kyle McCall yet.  But I’m pretty sure I know how to keep the kids from doing anything stupid between now and whenever we figure that detail out.”

“Oh good,” said Melissa.  She was wonderfully skilled with sarcasm.  “A plan.”

Despite himself, Stilinski smiled.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

Melissa sat in the car, contemplating the view out the windshield and biting her lip.  Sheriff Stilinski sat beside her in the passenger seat.  He was in his work uniform, the kevlar vest under it puffing him up to look bigger than he had earlier in the day.  The man fiddled with the lock box he had brought with him.

“Do you think he’s really serious?” Melissa asked.  Stilinski frowned.

“Yeah.  It makes sense really,” he said.  “What Stiles was saying before, about the alphas.  They’ve got alphas they answer to...”

He trailed off on a deep breath, looking out the window.  Argent’s SUV pulled up.  It seemed silly, the sheriff showing up in Melissa’s beat up old car only to have that nice, shiny, butch truck dwarf it.  Melissa felt the need to apologize but shook her head instead. Stilinski didn’t seem bothered.  He looked over at her, expression hopeful.

“Still up for it?” he asked her.  Melissa thought about it.  Considered the big SUV idling just to the side of hers.  She nodded then.  She killed the engine and tucked her keys in the dash where Argent had told her to.  She still looked hesitant.  Stilinski picked up on it and held up a fist, expecting to bump fists and rile up the troops like a typical male.  Melissa smirked at him, covered his hand with hers and leaned over to press a quick kiss to his cheek for the effort.

“Let’s go then,” she said.  Stilinski blinked stupidly after her as she climbed out of the car.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.

“What are you doing here?” Derek Hale was surprised by the shadows walking in from the far doors of the old burnt out and beat up warehouse.  There were too many of them for this to be a simple meeting with Chris Argent.

“Us? What are you doing here?” called Scott McCall.  The teenager’s tone made it clear that he had his back up about something and Stiles was having to trot to keep up with Scott’s angry strides.  Isaac and Allison trailed at a more cautious distance.  Not far behind Derek, two shadows of his own pack separated from their hiding places and took up more directly useful guard positions.  He waved them off.

“This isn’t what we’re here for,” said Derek.  He looked around at the outside walls, a flare of caution as he sensed a trap. The wolves all tilted their heads suddenly, their attention caught by something outside.  Stiles caught it and stepped up behind Scott, tugging on his arm.  

“What?” he asked.  Scott shushed him.  The answer became obvious then as the warehouse’s aluminum doors were crumpled through like a tin can peeled inside out.  The wolves and humans alike scattered for defensive positions as the SUV crashed into the room and spun toward them, brights up in the dim light of the warehouse.  The engine cut but the lights stayed on. Outside it was fading sunlight, so inside, the brights were bright to sensitive eyes. The humans however had a slightly better vantage point.  Stiles started back toward the truck before Scott or Derek could see again.

“What the hell...” He stopped as the doors of the vehicle opened up and three shadows emerged to walk toward them in the glare of the headlamps.

Melissa McCall approached the gathered werewolves, armed with a baseball bat.  She was flanked by the sheriff - in uniform, fully armed, with a rifle at his shoulder - on one side and Chris Argent and his handguns on the other.

“Dad?” asked Stiles, clearly stumped.  “What the hell?”

The response was a loud shot from Chris’ handgun.  The wolves could hear the ricochet but nobody had the first clue what had been shot at other than the wall far off behind Scott and Stiles.

“Watch your language, Stiles,” Melissa said.  She was smiling, but she was still standing between two armed men, carrying a weapon herself.  Nobody knew what was going on anymore.  Behind Derek, Peter smiled, dangerously close to laughing.  Derek cut him a glare but the older man stayed smug.  Derek looked back to the collection of parents with a little more curiosity than caution.

“Okay then, _Mom_ ,” replied Stiles carefully.  He waved at Chris.  “Can somebody tell us why we’re being _gorram shot_ at _by friendlies_?”

“Because we can,” said Chris.  He was good at creepy smiles.  Always had been.  Derek shook off the creeps and forced himself to stay calm.  He had been invited to the party, but he was beginning to see that it wasn’t in his honor.

“So we’ve had to do a little adjusting to the ground rules,” said Melissa.  “Given the events of the last year or so.”

“Which nobody thought were worth mentioning to _all_ interested parties,” added in Stilinski with a pointed glare at his son.  Stiles gaped.  

“I want it agreed upon, by everyone, that the pack hierarchy still stands,” Melissa said, confident that she had everyone’s attention.  “The human pack hierarchy.  Parents provide food and shelter for their children, aside from the whole giving-birth-to-them-in-the-first-place part, so everything. _Everything_. Gets run by me, Chris, or the sheriff.  I don’t care who, or how, but you’ll let us know _before_ we get mauled or carried off by pissed off, creepy-looking, smelly monsters.”

“You might not be little kids anymore.  We won’t waste your time pretending grounding you will do a damn bit of good _if_ you don’t waste our time pretending there can’t still be consequences,” said Stilinski.  He held up the rifle slightly.   “These will sting a little, but you’ll live.  It’s just a lot more complicated than grandpa’s old hickory switch.  And you can sure as hell believe we’d rather not resort to it.”

“But you better listen when I want your attention, young man, or so help me...” Melissa added in, looking right at a bug-eyed Scott.  The adults still looked calm, though Derek could tell that Melissa and Stilinski were terrified.  He could hear their heartbeats, noticed they were so much more erratic than Chris Argent’s. It was impossible to tell how much was for show and how much was real intent with that mix.  Derek looked from Melissa to Stilinski and realized the sheriff was tracking him as well as the kids.

“This reminder also goes to the Hale pack over there, too,” Stilinski said.  “Whatever rules you’ve got that you expect our kids to follow?  Run ‘em by me first.  Courtesy.  You’re in _my_ territory.  I have to clean up _your_ messes.  Stop making my kids a part of them and we’ll all get along a lot better.  Understood?”

Derek blinked, surprised at being called out.  Peter nudged at Derek’s arm with an elbow, urging him to some alpha-like response.

“Uh.  Yes sir...” was all Derek managed.  He could practically feel Cora rolling her eyes behind his back.  He didn’t really care.  

Whatever spark was there to make Scott’s pack work, even though it was comprised of equal parts human to wolf, that spark had stuck to their parents, too.  There were, as far as he could tell, three alphas in the room, and one of them felt distinctly human and female.  Scared or not, Melissa was resolved to the course of action they were on.  She would take that bat to anyone that looked like they needed it, and Derek knew well enough that Chris Argent wouldn’t hesitate to pull a trigger.  The sheriff was a protector more than an enforcer, and from the sounds of it, he was looking to protect a lot of people.  He deferred to Melissa, Argent deferred to Melissa.  The parents had their own pack.  Beacon Hills officially made no sense at all to the world as Derek Hale knew it.

Melissa looked back to Scott then.  “Hear that?” she asked.  “I know you did.  So keep it in mind.  It goes double for you.  You’re not on his territory-” Melissa pointed the bat at Derek.  “And he’s not on yours.  You’re both on the sheriff’s territory, and on my territory, and on Chris’.  Any problems that come up because of it, you can deal with it yourself, fine, but I _promise_ you, you’ll deal with it again the second I hear about it.”

Derek looked over at Scott’s pack.  Isaac looked like he wanted to turn tail and hide.  He not-so-subtly hid behind Allison as it was, though he was so much bigger than her that there was no doubt Chris could have shot him without endangering Allison if he really wanted to.  Scott finally seemed to have figured out that his jaw still functioned and he had closed his mouth.  And Stiles... Derek did not know it was possible for the human face to contort into such a look of utter confusion.

“I think we’ve made ourselves pretty clear,” Melissa said.  She looked to Stilinski, got a nod in reply, and then looked to Chris.  He seemed to approve so she looked back to Scott.  “Everything make sense to you?”

“...No?” said Scott.  The kid was predictable.  Derek shook his head.  Melissa rested the bat against her shoulder, her arms crossed.

“To put it simply,” she said, “I’m your mother.  Step out of line and I’ll kick your ass, or have it kicked, one way or the other.  No more thinking you don’t still answer to me, just because some pedophile jerk decided he had to bite a teenager.”

“Mom!” squawked Scott.  The pedophile jerk in question lost a bit of his smugness, which amused Derek.

“Should I tell her you’re in the room?” Derek asked, far too quiet for Melissa to overhear.  Peter leveled a glare at him.  Derek grinned back.  

Derek watched as Melissa wheedled a promise out of Scott, and then Isaac, and then Stiles and Allison.  They would play by the new rules.  Derek had already agreed to them on behalf of his pack and that was good enough.  Then Melissa announced there would be pizza at dinner and she expected at least Scott and Stiles to show up, on time, clean, and not bloody, for the meal.  Derek held up his hands and shook his head, no problems with the arrangement at all, and Melissa seemed to take that as yet another win.  Which it was.  Derek officially had no idea how the woman did it.  He was somewhat in awe.

Then the parent-pack dropped back to the SUV.  Argent got behind the wheel, Stilinski took shotgun, and Melissa was formally chauffeured out of the building.  When the engine noise faded, everything in the warehouse remained still and quiet for long, shocked seconds.

Scott turned then and looked back at Derek.  “Can she do that?” he asked, still somewhat dazed looking.  Derek nodded and shrugged.

“She just did,” he replied.

“Yes, she can do that,” Peter added in.  Stiles smirked at him.

“Hey, look, he brought Peter the pedo,” he said.  Peter bared his teeth at Stiles and the young man dodged shamelessly behind Scott.

“Unless you plan to challenge your mother for control of the territory,” Peter continued, “Which I don’t think you do.”

“Hell no,” said Scott and Stiles at once.  Derek shrugged it off again.

“Then there’s no problem,” he said. “We have permission to be here. From the alpha of the territory.”

“What?” asked Stiles.  He rubbed his ear, not thinking he heard that correctly.

“My mom’s an alpha?” asked Scott.  Derek and Peter both nodded an affirmative.

“She just made herself one, Argent and Stilinski backed it up,” said Derek.  “Each of us deferred to her.  They work this area every day.  It’s her territory.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Peter advised.  “We don’t want you to break anything.”

Scott shot him a glare but Stiles snapped him out of it.

“Okay then. So. We’ve got three alphas in the neighborhood.  Parties will be tons of fun.  There will be no territorial asskicking today.  This has been a very productive meeting, guys.  Look at all the stuff we’ve learned,” said Stiles, bouncing slightly where he stood.  He looked between Scott and Derek.  “Any other business we’ve got to see to, at night, in a warehouse, after explicit instructions not to get so much as a papercut before dinner?”

Derek shook his head.  Scott reluctantly mirrored the movement.  Stiles clapped his hands to break the pre-game huddle.  “Good.  So we can go now?”

Derek rolled his eyes, shook his head.  He didn’t know about Scott’s plans, but Derek had places to go and he was wasting daylight.  He turned and moved to follow Cora back the way they had come in, far away from the gaping SUV-shaped hole in the side of the warehouse.  Welcome back to Beacon Hills, he thought to himself.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.o.


End file.
